


Winter

by thegreatgayjatsby



Category: 1776 (1972), 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Canon Era, Developing Relationship, Edward hates the cold, M/M, Snowball Fight, playfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatgayjatsby/pseuds/thegreatgayjatsby
Summary: Edward Rutledge is not a fan of the winters in Philadelphia. John Adams uses this to his advantage.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 11 (“Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!”) with pretty much any pairing involving (1776) john adams. probably a gay pairing

Edward had never been particularly fond of the weather in Philadelphia. It was always either too damn hot, which he could tolerate, being a Southerner, or too damn cold. The latter option was where the South Carolina really began to have trouble.

The walk from his apartment to the Congressional hall was about ten minutes at best, and in the summer, it was alright. He could tighten his cravat when he entered the building, and ignore the heat, as he did back at home. During the winter, however, he had to tuck his hands deep into his pockets, hunch his shoulders, and bully his way through crowds of people doing much the same. Edward Rutledge despised winter, and he despised the biting wind and snow that came with it.

John Adams, on the other hand, born and raised a Northerner, preferred the cold to the damnable heat. For him, it was worth the nipping of wind across his cheeks and sitting in front of a hearth to warm his hands to avoid the brutal heat of the summer. He could hardly walk four paces without a bead of sweat rolling down his brow and into his eye. It was obnoxious.

This December morning, the wind howled and flurries of snow flitted past Edward’s window. He frowned out his window at the sky as he dressed for the day. It took him some small mental encouragement to step from the parlor and into the hall, and even more to convince himself to exit the building. The moment the first gust of wind ruffled his hair, he frowned and shifted his shoulders up, turning into the gale and stalking down the street.

Edward’s eyes were fixed so securely upon the ground before him, scanning for patches of ice so as to not slip and fall like an ass in the street, that he did not see one John Adams as he walked. He walked directly into the man.

Adams let out a little bark of surprise, turning from where he was peering through a window at some shop or another. Edward’s snappy tone died in his throat, and he made a little face. Adams frowned at him.

“Mr. Rutledge,” He greeted, looking Edward up and down a moment before raising a brow. “Sir, I can’t imagine anyone out in this weather without a cloak.”

“I don’t have one.” Edward answered stiffly, trembling where he stood. Adams’ cloak was woolen and very fine, appearing heavy and warm.

Adams looked surprised, then, offended. “You’ll catch your death wandering about without one. Come, let’s get you inside.”

Edward huffed softly. “Just because I’m from the South doesn’t mean I don’t know how to handle myself in a little chill.” He grumbled, but nonetheless, followed along after Adams when the man crossed the street.

The Southerner found himself walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Adams in no time at all, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he hunkered against the Massachusetts delegate for warmth. The man was like a hearth in of himself, Edward was pleased to find. He wantonly sapped the heat Adams produced by permitting contact between them, touching from shoulder to their elbows.

Adams did not seem adverse to this, instead conversationally noting some of the better cloak-producing tailors in the city. Edward hardly took note. He could ask again later. He should have listened to John—his John, John Dickinson—before the man had gone home briefly to attend to his estate, and purchased warmer clothing. He wanted to smack himself.

The journey to Congress seemed much longer than usual, and when they arrived, Edward hurried up the steps to wrench the door open. When it stood fast, he scowled, turning to Adams and growling, “McNair hasn’t come ‘round to unlock it.”

Adams made a face and produced a long-suffering sigh. “It’s nearly nine o’ clock. How are we supposed to get anything done if we can’t even show up on time?”

Edward rolled his eyes and shifted the best he could into the alcove of the doorframe. Adams appraised him the same way he had when Edward had trod upon him. Rutledge briefly felt uncomfortable, and squashed the feeling away by winking at Adams.

Adams’ cheeks seemed rather flushed, even for the amount of wind they faced currently. Rutledge grinned. Carolina-1, Massachusetts-0.   

With a lazy swish of his hips, Edward turned and half-heartedly tried the door again. When he cast his gaze back at John, his eyes widened almost comically. “Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!”

The packed ball of snow hit him square in the chest. He supposed that’s what he got for being snooty. Rutledge’s eyes narrowed. Adams laughed aloud at him. Alright. Perhaps a good old fashioned scuffle would get his blood pumping, and would warm him up. Adams was in for a fight.

                                                                                                                                                                                                  


End file.
